


The Author of Wishes

by an_ok_violist



Category: A Room of One's Own - Virginia Woolf, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Original Work, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: A lil bit creepy, Books, Liibraries, Short One Shot, Wishes, but not really, idk man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_ok_violist/pseuds/an_ok_violist
Summary: Lisa Whittaker is just like her mom-- quick to trust, kind, smart, and insatiable in her desire for knowledge and love of books.  When a mysterious figure called the Author gives her the chance to make her books reality, it's up to Lisa to make the right choices for her and the rest of the universe.**this is my first work and I can’t write summaries lol**





	The Author of Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first work (Yay!!!) and so no one's gonna read it but I'm going to put it out there. It's not bad writing, and I don't think it has any grammar mistakes and it took me a bit to write cuz it's for an English assingment, so enjoy it!!!!!

**APRIL 27, 2002**

“Is there ANY chance of finding her, ma’am?  Please! She couldn’t have just disappeared!”

“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Whittaker.  It’s a cold case. There’s nothing more that we can do.  Mariah Whittaker was never, and most likely can never be found.”

Edith Whittaker bowed her head and wept.

**OCTOBER 24, 2017**

She didn’t remember her, of course.   One couldn’t expect her to. But she had inherited many of the things that made Mariah Whittaker stand out in her time.  Like her mother, Lisa too had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and an adamant belief in the undeniable, unshakable superiority of books.  This, however, was not the only thing Lisa had in common with Mariah. Lisa, of course, had the same open affability as her mother, and with it the penchant to inherently believe and assume the benevolence in others.  While this often ended in disappointment for Lisa, it wasn’t sole reason she disappeared. Oh, no. With her insatiable desire for knowledge came a restlessness that could only be described as a total discontentment with life.

With each tome devoured by her eager mind that gobbled up each minute detail, she became more and more upset with the state of the world around her, and the seemingly increasing lack of knowledge in her.  This, this was what eventually preyed on young Lisa Whittaker, just like her mother before her.

“Lisa! Have you even  _ started  _ that essay?  You’ve been in there  _ all  _ afternoon-- you didn’t even come for tea... Heaven knows you’ll--”  Edith Whittaker hastily shut her mouth when a pale arm darted out, clutching a neatly stapled stack of papers.  “Perhaps you have done it, then. Very well, darling. Supper is at 5:30. I trust you will be prompt.”

Lisa didn’t look up, even as her grandmother closed the door.  She was totally engrossed in some old Victor Hugo novel about Who-knows-what tragedy.  

Lisa loved living with her grandparents, however irritating they seemed to her.  The three lived in an old, Neo-Gothic mansion, surrounded with crumbling old stone walls, small woodlands, and a small pond, about an hour’s drive from Brighton.  It was favourably large, so that Lisa could practically make herself invisible whenever she pleased. Typically, and unsurprisingly, she retreated to the library. Large and close to her bedroom, the library loomed, ostentatious, silent, dim, and not used by anyone else.  It was more than a safehaven to escape the entropy of daily life; it provided her the nourishment she seeked-- words and ideas, philosophies and theories spilled from the walls by the hundreds. 

She hated Secondary School, with all its arrogant jocks and snivelling know-it-alls who believed that they were superior just because they took more science classes than her.  No, even when surrounded by a whole gaggle of friends who made her smile and laugh, she still loved her library more than any other place in the world.

**OCTOBER 25, 2017**

Lisa walked home slowly that day, twirling in a circle to appreciate the trees around her.  She basked in the beauty of the saffron, vermilion, and tawny leaves above her. She pulled out her spare key upon arriving at the door (her grandparents were out for the afternoon), but found that the door was unlocked.  

“Hello?  Anyone there?” she called out, knowing full well that even if her grandparents  _ were  _ home, they wouldn’t necessarily hear her.  She called out again, a little louder this time.  No response. She crept slowly along, feet padding silently into the kitchen.

“Hello, Lisa Morgan Whittaker.  I’ve been waiting for you.”

Lisa stood stock-still, her mouth gaping like a fish, ashen-white.  The man stood up. The first thing she noticed was his height-- he towered at least a foot over her.  And the fact he wore what looked like a metallic gold bathrobe despite looking about 60 years old. She stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“If you don’t tell me  _ one  _ good reason why you’re in  _ my  _ house standing in front of the Nutella, I’m calling a bobby.” Lisa stood up straight, trying to look intimidating.  She knew it wouldn’t do anything-- she quit karate when she was six, and a decade later, no means an athlete. Nonetheless, it made her feel confident.  

“Oh, of course, yes.  I’m the Author. You know, of books, and life, I suppose.  I became friends with Mariah. Good lady, yes. She was a smart one...”  Lisa tilted her head at the mention of her mother.

“You knew my mum.” 

“I did.  Better than she knew.”

“Okay, um.  And who are you? Were you like, her beau? Friend? Mentor?” She tried to imagine the woman in the pictures going to tea with the man, but it didn’t jibe.   _ Who are you?  _ She thought.  Maybe she should call the bobby.

“I’m the Author.  I help write life.” He countered, opening the cabinet to pull out the bag of pretzels and Nutella, tossing them on the table.  She eyed the food quickly, before opening the container of Nutella. 

“You can’t do that.” She finally responded.  “It doesn’t work that--”

“ _ You  _ can’t do it.  But I can. Here’s the deal.  I’m here to offer you a chance to rewrite your life.  Tell me what books you want to be reality, and it’s done.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Nothing, really,” he responded, turning to walk out of the kitchen, and down the corridor.

“Where are you going?  Where will I find you then?” She yelled after the retreating figure.

“You’ll know where to find me.”

“You know I’m not going call the bobby on you. Just to, ah, let you know.”

The Author paused. 

“I knew you wouldn’t.” 

And he was gone.

Lisa ran into the library, and hastily began to flip through book after book.   _ Was it true?  _ She thought.   _ Do I  _ actually  _ have the power to make whatever was already written a reality?  _  She pulled off her worn copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice.   _ It was a long shot, she knew, but she knew it would be foolproof.  

The Author chuckled to himself, as he saw his Character run to him, clutching her book in her hand.  She looked and acted just like her mother.  _ Wonderful.   _ He thought to himself, as she stood in front of him, breathing hard from her running.

“Lisa Whittaker, a pleasure.”

“Thank you, um, Author.” She didn’t know what to call him, so she assumed the title he gave himself would suffice.

“Your grandparents arrived home safely, I presume?” He asked pleasantly, as if chatting with an old friend.

“Yeah. They did.”

“Found what you want so soon?  Not surprised.” He smiled at the girl in front of him.

“Yes.  Pride and--”

“Prejudice.  Jane Austen, 1813.  I know, darling. I know.  You want a Mr. Darcy, I presume, yes?”

“No.  I want, I want... to have kids have... I don’t know!  In the book, they never talk about the really stupid stuff and when they gossiped, they didn’t tell lies and aren’t stressed out by all that.  I wish that kids would be like that at school.”

“Interesting.  Consider it done.”

**OCTOBER 25, 2017**

Amy and Makayla didn’t insult her mum that day.  It worked.  _ I’m going to ask something more personal.  No! What if something happens? But it worked like he said it would.  I could get my mum back. I could get my mum back.  _ She went to bed with that in her head that night.   _ I could get my mum back. _

**NOVEMBER 2, 2017**

“Author!” The Author turned, amused at the girl running with yet another book.  So enthusiastic. So willing to help others. She never altered anything about herself, he noted.  But every wish went closer and closer to her. She’d crack soon enough. He knew the girl inside and out.  Just like her mother.

“Lisa Whittaker. Good afternoon.”

“A Room of One’s Own.  Virginia Woolf. I want, I want, Mary’s to be all over history.  
“Ah, skipping the pleasantries.  But they existed, like Jane Austen.”

“I know.  I want more.”

“Let it be done, then.”

**NOVEMBER 3, 2017**

In history class, they discussed Judith Peterson, an author who wrote abolitionist treatises in the Civil War era.   _ I could get my mum back.  I could get my mum back.  _ That’s all that rang in her ears.

**NOVEMBER 9, 2017**

It had to be today.  It just  _ had  _ to be.  He was running out of time. The Author had never failed before.  He succeeded with her mother. He had to succeed with her. She would come again, he knew.  She came almost every day now. Right about this time, she would come bounding up the hill with another old, yellow book in hand.

This time, she would switch it up a bit.  The hope of meeting her mum loomed over her conscious.  She pulled over a step stool, and took from the top a new, crisp book this time.  

“Author!” She pulled him out of his reverie.

“Lisa Whittaker.  Look at you! You brought something not in tatters!” he remarked at her book.

“Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  I want a mum like Molly Weasley. I want to be like Ginny at the end with a loving, protective mum like Molly.  I want my mum.” Lisa ignored the playful jab. She was giddy with excitement for what what was to come. She would finally meet the mother she always wanted.  The one that everyone said she looked like, acted like. She would finally meet the person in the pictures who was so young, vivacious, and beautiful- looking.

“Yes, ma’am.”  

Once again, the Author won.

**NOVEMBER 10, 2017**

She couldn’t find her.  She wasn’t in the house.  She wasn’t in the yard. It was one thing to lose a daughter, but for Lisa to go missing too?  Fate couldn’t possibly be  _ that  _ cruel.  With a trembling hand, she punched in the numbers 999 into the phone and lifted it to her ear. 

“Hello?  Yes. My name is Edith Whittaker, and I can’t find my granddaughter, Lisa Morgan Whittaker.  Yes. Since yesterday afternoon. She’s missing. She’s missing.”


End file.
